


Where You End And Where I Begin

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, F/M, POV Irene Adler, Suggestions of Sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man walks into a bar to talk to the only woman who matters... Or is she? Months after the Fall, Sherlock Holmes tracks down Ms. Irene Adler to ask her a very important question. But can The Woman help him find any clarity? And will her words do more harm than good? Rated hard T for language. Complete for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Woman

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Takes place after_ _"_ _The Reichenbach Fall,_ _"_ _but references the entire series to date. And can I give a thanks to wickedwanton for her encouragement in dipping my toe into Holmesian waters? Cheers, love!_

* * *

**THE WOMAN**

* * *

_Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let_ _'_ _s have dinner. IA_

_I_ _'_ _m not hungry. Let_ _'_ _s have dinner. IA_

_I_ _'_ _m in Egypt, talking to an idiot. Get on a plane. Let_ _'_ _s have dinner. IA_

_I_ _'_ _m not dead. Let_ _'_ _s have dinner. IA_

* * *

_Sherlock? Are you there? M._

* * *

_**Lounge Bar, Sheraton Imperial, Kuala Lumpur,** _

_**201 Days After The Fall** _

_He_ _'_ _s changed, that_ _'_ _s the first thing Irene thinks as she watches him enter the bar._

Not so much physically, though the red hair and beard now disguise that striking face. The cheekbones she would gladly have cut her hand slapping now hidden behind a grizzled beard and an even more grizzled demeanour. He's built up muscle, no longer razor-thin and elegant as a shadow. There's a strength and width across his shoulders now, a dip of weight that tells you this is not a man with whom one would wish to toy.  _And yet, he_ _'_ _s still Sherlock._ He's still the only man who ever intrigued her. He's still the man who saved her life. Irene sinks onto the loveseat she chose when she arrived, watching him. There's such a pleasure in that, in watching someone who once wanted to belong to her, and she's never been the kind to deny herself a treat.

 _Denial,_ she used to say,  _is for other people, darling._

That she has been forced to make her peace with it still sets something hissing and angry coiling in her chest.

But though she sees the similarities with the person who saved her in Karachi, she can see the differences too. He's quieter now. More focussed. More of a scalpel, less of an electric current. More of a grownup, less of that stubborn, dreaming little boy. He has a… patina of experience, a sureness about him now that all his old arrogance never could make up for.  _Or fake_. It's so noticeable that Irene feels herself wondering darkly where  _her_ Sherlock went to, whether John Watson and he have a happy announcement in the works. Whether that relationship, always so strangely charged and oddly loving, has finally tipped over into something else-

 _But no,_ she muses.  _If he and John were together then he wouldn_ _'_ _t be here._

If Watson ever gave his heart to his best friend then that best friend would never leave it. The fights would be ear-splitting and the sex would be epic, but there would be nothing she or anyone else could do to induce distance.  _Sherlock certainly wouldn_ _'_ _t be asking to see her or flying around the world to do it._  And yet, this meeting had been set up at his request. _Curioser,_ she thinks, _and curioser._  The idea that there might be another woman appears, only to be rejected as too ridiculous to countenance: She is The Woman to him, the only one that matters, and that's who she'll always be.  _No little slip of a girl is going to interfere with that._  They're two of a kind, she and Sherlock; If they were able to have other people, neither one of them would be here.

 _But still_ _…_ For the first time in all the time that she's known him, he looks… comfortable in his own skin.

He looks like he knows who he  _is_  now.

An image appears in her mind, Sherlock airborne, Sherlock tumbling, black coat like liquid smoke around him. Breath snatched from his lungs by a giant's hand, the tearing, siren call of gravity opening its arms to fold him in close. In her mind blood spatters and bone hits concrete, but he's in front of her, living proof that that never happened-

It's fanciful and romantic and ridiculous, and he's about the only man she can imagine being able to carry it off, even a little.

 _Jim Moriarty would have murdered the world to be half as interesting a creature as that man there_ , she muses.

"Mr. Sigerson," she says then, rising and holding out her hand to him.

He makes a show of turning at the sound of his alias, but Irene suspects he knew where she was well before that.

"Mrs. Mounier," he retorts, nodding and holding out his hand to her, every inch the stiff, professional British gentleman. He doesn't want the hotel staff guessing the nature of their assignation, Irene thinks. "So good of you to see me on such short notice," he says. "And how is your husband?"

She smiles wryly. She should have known he'd check.  _Youssef_ _ **will**_ _be happy with someone looking into their relationship,_ she thinks. "Trying to flee Cairo," she says. "It's rather frightful, I'm afraid. Revolution." She shakes her head, gives a delicately exaggerated shudder. "Why can't people simply behave themselves?"

Sherlock's smile is wry. Warm- For him. "Yes," he says. "Why indeed?"

And he takes a seat opposite her, nodding to the bar-tender to top up Irene's whiskey. The man does so as silently as a shadow, shooting Irene an  _are you alright, madam?_ look, bless him. But Irene feels no fear sitting opposite Sherlock Holmes. She feels no tug of sorrow, no hurricane-twist of a broken heart. No, she feels what she's always felt, the anticipation of a battle well-fought, the torque of an attraction she'll never willingly turn her back on tightening then tightening again.  _It is exquisite._ He reaches into his pocket, places a room-card on the table. She looks at it, one elegant eyebrow raised, her mouth pursed in contemplation.

"The penthouse suite," she says. "I must admit, I'm flattered."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to shrug. "The Woman would expect nothing less."

He purses his lips, taps those long, elegant fingers on the arm of his chair. For a moment his mind is to be very far away, but then he snaps back to the present. "Besides, it seemed appropriate," he continues, as if he hadn't paused at all. "The last time we were here, that's where we stayed. Can you blame me for developing a fondness for the closest thing to a crime scene I've ever slept in?"

Irene snorts in amusement. "You forget, I know what you did to Agent Neilson," she points out. "I was hardly your first crime scene, Mr. Sigerson."

"And I was hardly yours, Mrs. Mounier," he retorts.

Again that almost-smile. A woman could get used to seeing that.

 _The woman who gets used to that smile won_ _'_ _t be me,_ Irene thinks.

But nevertheless, Sherlock leans over and places a hand on hers, long elegant fingers stretching beyond her own, weighing her hand down. His smile a moment from a lifetime ago. A moment from the life she had to abandon, the life she'll never have again. Nobody would blame her for wanting to live in that moment again, and even if they did… Well, she'd tell them to go to Hell. So Irene picks up the room key. Stands.

Her hand is in his now.

"Then by all means," she says, "let's go break the law."


	2. The Detective

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

* * *

**THE DETECTIVE**

* * *

_**198 Days After The Fall** _

From: lollymolly_inabox@memail.com

To: btccsigersson@sigerssonpharma.no

Re: Hey

Look, I know you don't want to talk to me. I understand. What happened… You didn't want it. It's not your area. I'm not your area. I got the wrong idea. But… I was so scared. Moran nearly killed me. You  _saved_  me. I'm not… I can't pretend that didn't matter. If I matter to you then you matter to me; What happened was important. Just… Just come back and I'll make sure you matter to me silently. No words or hands in new places or anything. Just… Please. Please, come home. I miss you. Toby misses you. The house is too safe without your experiments going off every five seconds.

Yours (and I know you don't want me, so unclench or you'll pop your stitches)

M.

* * *

_**Penthouse Suite, Sheraton Imperial, Kuala Lumpur,** _

_**201 Days After The Fall** _

He doesn't speak until they enter the hotel room.

Not that Irene really expects him to; She knows what he's like better than she should, remembers the way he'd ricochet from silent-with-thought to supersonic-with-words in a matter of seconds- But only when he's found something which really excites him.  _Only when that beautiful, brilliant mind had found something worthy of its attention._ It was the first thing she'd found fascinating about him, really: She'd thought he must have been something extraordinary, to engage Jim Moriarty's interest in the way he did. Meeting him had proved her right, brainy being the new sexy, and all that.

Besides, he'd had the extreme good taste to be fascinated by  _her_ , and that had proved unequivocally what a genius he was.

A great many things in Irene's life have changed these past two years, but her absolute belief in her own allure will never be taken away.

The silence continues until they enter the room, Irene pausing to pull off her shoes as she does so, one hand steadying herself on the wall, turning on the room's lights. She's not entirely certain what reaction Sherlock will have to the action but she wants to see: If he's here for a repeat of their last night together then she wouldn't be averse to giving it a try. _Respectability may have saved her neck but it_ _'_ _s so bloody_ _ **boring**_ _sometimes._

Besides, this new, pared-down Sherlock intrigues her. So many of the demons he once held unbeatable seem to have been ground into unimportance by all he's been through since he faked his death.  _If he_ _'_ _d been like this when he saved her in Karachi then she might have even taken him up on his offer that night,_ she thinks _._ But he wasn't different then. He wasn't someone she could stay with. He was still  _her_ Sherlock. The Virgin. The Iceman's little brother. Amusing and infuriating in equal measure, the only person who left her locked in, checked and (eventually) mated. She'd known he wasn't a good bet- money in the bank or even a diamond on her finger. No, Sherlock was voracious. Needy and greedy and volatile. Kind and cruel and confusing and far more trouble than he was worth. He was the sort of man she could love and resent in equal measure, and Irene had known herself too well, even then, to think that sticking with him would be a good idea-

 _Her time with Moriarty had, alas, proven to her the value of occasionally pursuing a good idea. It tended to keep one_ _'_ _s head attached to one_ _'_ _s shoulders._

A beat.

He pauses then, turns to look around at her. He notes her removed shoes and she sees his eyes linger on her legs in a way that's most gratifying. His eyes narrow though a small smile curls at his lip. "Why is it you always seem to want to take your clothes off around me?" he asks dryly.

Irene knows a challenge when she hears one. "Because you inevitably start showing off for me when I do, Mr. Holmes," she says, "and that's always fun."

Something dims in his smile, the light in his eyes almost disappearing. Someone else is in the room with them now, Irene thinks, and she suspects it's Jim Moriarty.  _He_ _'_ _s always in the room with them._ But when his gaze comes to rest on her there's no animosity, even if his smile isn't as bright. "I'm not here to show off for you," he says wryly. "Apparently I've done that enough already."

Irene chuckles. "Then what are you here for, Mr. Holmes?" She's moved on from her shoes to her jacket, easing it off her shoulders slowly- elegantly- enough that it should get his attention. Enough to perhaps tease him out of that dark blue grey and tie. But he pins her with that ice-blue gaze, and suddenly she doesn't feel like laughing anymore. She doesn't even feel like flirting, which is a first for her. Instead, she does the only thing she can do. She stares right back into those quicksilver blue eyes.

It suddenly occurs to her that whatever Sherlock brought her here for, it doesn't include sex.

Another, longer beat.

"I've something I need to ask you, Ms. Adler," he tells her then.

"Of course you do," she says-  _She has the sinking feeling she knows what it is._ "Does that require us both being clothed?"

And she smiles, makes to take her dress off.

Maybe she can distract him as easily as she once did.

 _And if she can distract herself from all she_ _'_ _s lost since The Woman died then so much the better._

But though his pulse might be beating a little harder at his throat than it was a second ago, and though he might be straining to stare at her eyes rather than letting his gaze drop downwards to any of her other, admittedly delightful, assets, Sherlock does not look distracted. No, he looks as she's seen him look only once before, the night he bundled her into the back of a waiting jeep and spirited her out of her captors' clutches and into the Karachi night. His expression is serious, that of a man with a mission. A knight in twilight-dark armour, the sort of man Irene used to dream about when she was still foolish enough to not be the focal-point of her own reveries. He walks over to her and she sits down, enjoys the prospect of him towering over her. There's not a living being she trusts, truth be told, but Sherlock Holmes might be as close as she'll ever get.  _And he would never willingly hurt her, she knows._ For a moment she sees his hand twitch as if to reach out and touch her. She'd welcome that- welcome him- and he knows it as well as she does. But then-

"What's your question, Mr. Holmes?" she hears her own voice say, apparently of its own volition.

Whatever hormonal magic being conjured between them sputters and dies immediately. Irene realises, to her surprise, that she isn't exactly unhappy about that.

He narrows his eyes stares down at her. For a moment he seems entirely silent, as quiet as if he were carved from stone. And then- then he asks the question she expected. The question she suddenly suspects brought him all the way here when he'd so successfully left her behind. "What happened between us the last night we were here, Ms. Adler?" he says. "Why- Why did you say I was still a virgin when I left you?"

Irene stares up at those blue eyes, so known, so… dazzling, and for once in her life her first instinct is not to lie.


	3. The Girl Without A Name

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

* * *

**THE GIRL WITHOUT A NAME**

* * *

_**130 Days After The Fall** _

**BURGLARY GOES WRONG IN WHITECHAPEL**

By  **Kitty Reilly**

Police are today interrogating a young woman about the death of three assailants in her Whitechapel flat. The accused- who cannot be named for legal reasons- is thought to have used deadly force to subdue three men she found in her home, despite their being unarmed. While we cannot release any personal information about the accused, this reporter has discovered that she is a pathologist on staff at St. Bart's Hospital, and that she worked closely with The Great Fraud, Sherlock Holmes, up until his unmasking and suicide last year. While we can certainly understand a woman living alone trying to protect herself, this reporter at least has to wonder whether a known associate of Sherlock Holmes can be trusted to give the police the whole story on this matter: The death toll she has totted up would seem to suggest that she, at least, also believes herself to be above the law. One way or the other however, it seems that the ripples of destruction which Holmes' death caused continue to echo through London, even now-

_Story continued on page 12._ _To mark Holmes_ _'_ _anniversary, check out lovely Louise and her deerstalker on_ _Page 3!_

* * *

_**Penthouse Suite, Sheraton Imperial, Kuala Lumpur,** _

_**201 Days After The Fall** _

For a moment Irene simply stares at him.

It's not that she didn't expect the question: there are only two things he would ask her about, and since the other one blew his brains out on the roof of St. Bart's six months ago, that only leaves what she and Sherlock got up to together in this very hotel. But though she knew he'd ask, she didn't think he'd ask her out straight. The last time they were together had been marked by its lack of straight-forward talking. It wasn't that he hadn't been enthusiastic; Like any other skill which had piqued his interest, Sherlock had gone out of his way to learn all he could about sex. He'd been an attentive if not very vocal lover, and Irene hadn't found any fault with that.  _In fact, in a weird way, it had been somewhat relaxing to have him finally_ _ **shut up.**_ It had made things… easier.  _Maybe even possible_. But that very reticence now made his forwardness all the more surprising. He was, after all, the man Moriarty had called The Virgin, and one night with him had been enough to convince Irene the nickname was apt. For a second she finds herself staring, unable to guess why he'd behave as he is behaving-

And then she sees it.  _Oh goodness, does she_.

Some flicker of… nervousness. Hesitation.  _Sentiment_.

And it's not directed at her.

She stares at him again, takes in anew the heavier build, the sterner countenance, and suddenly it comes to her as brightly as a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. Because there  _is_ someone. Someone who isn't John Watson. Someone who isn't her. Someone Sherlock's flown half way around the world to ask her about, and whoever this person is, they are far more fragile, in Sherlock's mind at least, than John Watson or herself.  _Everything about him screams that this is a man on a mission to protect._ Inwardly Irene shakes her head, understanding dawning. There is only one reason why Sherlock would as her about that night they spent together here in Kuala Lumpur, and it's if he was thinking about recreating that experiment with another person. Another  _woman._

For a moment Irene feels something numbing and awkward twist at her heart and then just as suddenly it's gone. She's not surprised by that.

 _After all, she long ago accepted that she is not constitutionally similar to the rest of her species_ ,  _her weakness for the great Sherlock Holmes notwithstanding._

"What's her name?" she asks then, because she wants to know more before she answers his question. If he's been insulted by this new lover and is looking for reassurance she can decide whether to give it to him. If, on the other hand, there is something more… delicate going on, then she'd like to know before she puts her foot in it.

 _Love can be so much more volatile than sex,_ she muses.

_Even a dominatrix knows that._

But he blinks at her, surprised at the deduction perhaps. Purses his lips and shakes his head, those long, elegant fingers drawing together in agitation. "She doesn't have a name," he says curtly. "At least, not as far as you're concerned."

Irene cocks an eyebrow. She hadn't been wrong about the protectiveness. Something must have happened. "But she is important to you?"

Suspicion narrows Sherlock's eyes. "There are plenty of people who are important to me, Ms. Adler-"

"Three people do not constitute "plenty," Sherlock," she interrupts wryly. "John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Those are the targets Jim Moriarty had identified as your pressure points. Those are the people for whom you care. Possibly your brother also, but Mycroft can handle himself- And half the intelligence community, if the stories are to be believed." She frowns thoughtfully. "But this person… This person isn't on that list." He opens his mouth to contradict her and she shoots him a look which roughly translates as  _bitch, please_ **.** "Were one of the people on that list who you were here to talk to me about then I'd know, Sherlock," she says softly.

He stiffens. "I've fooled you before-"

"Not about this." She clicks her tongue as she makes a show of looking him over.  _Suffice it to say, it does not increase his sense of Zen_. "The reaction when someone discusses a lover… That can't be faked," she tells him softly. "At least, not by you." She smiles, tries to take the sting out of her words. "You just haven't had the requisite practice, darling. Not to fool a professional. Don't take it to heart-"

"I don't have a heart to take it to-"

"You've a fuller heart than me, Sherlock, and there's few I would admit that to out loud." She sighs, puffs out a breath of air though. Their mutual desire to needle one another is getting them sidetracked, she thinks. "But come, we're moving off target. You asked me about the last night we spent together, and I suppose I owe you an answer, after all you've done for me."

He stiffens again. "I did nothing in expectation of reward."

Irene can tell that the notion that they… traded favours their last night together sets something bitter in his craw.  _How unexpectedly romantic of him._

"You were reward enough," she tells him gently. Now, with a bit of distance, she can afford to be gentle with him.  _She can allow herself to be_. "But you did save me, and I want to help you if I can. So I will answer your question…" Something occurs to her.

"If you're sure you want to know?"

Part of her thinks that he'll seize upon that offer and withdraw the question. Part of her hopes he will. She's honestly not sure how he'll react to what she has to tell him, and she knows him well enough to realise that he'll call her on any lies she tells. But when he looks at her his gaze is steady. Sure. The blue eyes do not waver, and if he has had to brace himself for this, he did it long before he made his way here to her.

"Tell me the truth," he says quietly.  _It is not a request_. "I need to know why you said what you said. Why you claimed-"

"That you were still a virgin after we… Well, after we were together."

Now it's his turn to cock an eyebrow. "This is no time for coyness, Ms. Adler."

"Would you prefer I say, "after we fucked like rabbits for hours," Mr. Holmes?" she drawls. "Because that would be more accurate-"

He holds up his hands in placation. "Objection withdrawn. Coyness is more than satisfactory, thank you." He looks down and, miracle of miracles, a slight… redness stains his cheeks. _Ah, the object of his affections is coy_ , Irene thinks.  _They_ _'_ _ll have that in common-_

And that is one thought on which she does not wish to dwell.

So Irene takes a deep breath. If he came all this way to ask her then it must be important. And she cares something for him, in her own fashion. If she can help him, she will. "The truth is, Sherlock, that I meant what I said that night," she tells him. "You… There's more to losing your virginity than placing your cock in a willing cunt." His eyebrows raise themselves nearly to his hairline in surprise, mouth hanging agog for a moment as he tries to frame an answer. Irene rushes to speak over him before he can. "You and your lady-love may be as bashful as you please," she tells him. "I haven't the time for it myself.  _Or the inclination._ We engaged in sexual intercourse, dear. Penetration occurred- quite enjoyably, I assure you- and we had sex." She takes a deep breath. "But there's a great deal more to losing your virginity than that, and I hadn't the cruelty to lie to the man who'd just saved my life by pretending they're isn't."

He goes very still at her words, apparently unwilling to believe her capable of such charitable intentions.

For a moment Irene is tempted to tell him to go to Hell with what he believes, but she does not.

Instead, she leans across and places her hand on his. He stiffens at the gesture, spine going as taut as if she'd electrocuted him, but he does not pull away. "This Girl Without A Name, this bashful angel you're taken with," she says. "Something has happened with her, hasn't it? Something to bring you here."

His mouth twists unconsciously at that, body straining slightly as if he wants to bodily fight her words.

But he does not, Irene notes, contradict her.

"There was an…incident," he says finally. His tone is clipped. Trying for flat. "She was harmed. I- I endeavoured to teach her how to defend herself, in the aftermath. She's not… She's not like you."

"Not good with a riding crop?" Irene asks dryly.

This time he meets her smile with a small one of his own. "A riding crop is far from your only option," he points out. "But yes, she's not as comfortable with violence as you or I. She's… Gentle. Sweet-natured, I suppose you'd say. I should… I should find that boring, but I don't- didn't-don't." He growls in frustration. "Don't. I don't. Find her boring, that is. She's not, and I didn't see that coming."

Again, he growls.

"It's most irritating, I assure you."

Irene holds her peace.

"I had- I've known her for so long, it honestly didn't occur to me that my feelings for her could change," he mutters softly. "It really is a most unforgivable lapse on my part, I know that. But there it is. She just… She just surprised me, is all." And he stares at his hands, long and tapered, the fingers knotted together. Irene looks at him and wishes, just a for a moment, that she were a naturally comforting sort. "I'm not good with sentiment, Ms. Adler," he says finally. "We both know that."

Irene cocks her head. "And yet you travelled all the way to Karachi to save me," she points out matter-of-factly.  _Be too gentle with him and she fears he_ _'_ _ll turn tail and run, too frightened of being swallowed by his big, scary emotions_. "You jumped to your apparent death and left everything you cared about to safeguard those you love. You dedicated yourself to taking apart Jim Moriarty's network, bit by bit, though I know many of his lieutenants would have left you in peace. And you tried to teach this gentle, quiet young thing of yours to take care of herself because you feared for her safety."

She leans back, makes a show of staring at him calculatingly.

"For a man who says he's not good with sentiment, you appear remarkably adept in its execution, Mr. Holmes."

The words take the wind out of his sails, she can tell. That alive, predatory certainty he's been radiating since he arrived deflates, leaving only the man she met that night after Karachi in his place. All that jittering emotion, all that energy, seems to fold itself back inside his skin as easily as an archangel might fold its wings. For a long moment he appears to be looking inward, unable or unwilling to find the words he wishes to say to her. It's disconcerting, to say the least, to see this normally loquacious man lost for words.  _But then_ _…_

"Did I… Did I please you, that night?" he asks eventually. His voice is distant. Uninvolved- But Irene suspects he feels anything but.

This time she squeezes his hand. "Yes," she says, with such certainty that he looks up at her in surprise. "I had no complaints, I assure you, Sherlock."  _She knows she has to say this next part carefully._ "But what we did together was nothing like what you will do with your nameless girl, with your bashful one."

He frowns. "How so?"

She shrugs. "Affection changes things, Sherlock," she says softly. "Don't ask me why because Lord knows I don't know. I only know that it does." She looks down at their joined hands, decides to go for broke."I have only once loved _another_ person," she says softly. "Believe me, I love myself more than enough to make up for it, and I enjoy what I do-  _everything I do-_ more than enough to compensate for the lack. But I have only been in love once, only had one… lover, I suppose you'd say. Only had one person who touched my heart deeply. After her, I realised how much of a difference affection does make, I just hadn't it in my power to affect any change to that."

He looks up at her. "Didn't it frighten you, though? That affection made it different?" He swallows. "Didn't you… Didn't you wish it could be as, well, as cut and dried as us?"

Irene shakes her head. "Sherlock Holmes," she says, "I will always treasure our time together. And I will never find another man with whom I enjoy competing as much, I assure you of that. But…" She takes another deep breath, assesses him with that calculating gaze once more. She knows this man so much better, she thinks, than she really should do. "If you have a chance for something else then don't be an idiot," she says quietly. "Take it. Take  _her_. Live your life, because you really are a long time dead. And after all, if you don't you'd just be ordinary… Which we both know you hardly are."

And with that she stands. Smoothes her skirt.  _She really needs a whiskey_. Sherlock's staring into space as if he doesn't see her, and she has no problem with leaving him to it. So she goes to the mini-fridge, pulls out a bottle of Glenfidditch, a tumbler, a couple of ice-cubes-

By the time she turns around to ask if he wants some, he's already disappeared, as if into thin air. Irene closes her eyes and smiles to herself, smiles at the thought of The Great Detective and his Nameless Girl.

She doesn't hear from him again and she doesn't expect to.

_But she_ _'_ _s happy for them both all the same._


End file.
